


He Dies

by spickandspock



Series: Caring [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, mention of drug use, mention of drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:30:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spickandspock/pseuds/spickandspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are dying faster than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Dies

Sherlock Holmes was dying. He knew he was dying because the human body only held approximately five-point-six litres of blood and, at the moment, a great deal of that seemed to be coating the front of his shirt, turning purple to a garish maroon.

It was his fault, as all things seemed to have been for the past three and a half years. He had been stupid, weak, had been driven from his home by his own mind and emotions and out onto the cold streets, fingers flitting over his mobile's keyboard, contacting all old drug dealers he could think of that weren't imprisoned, eventually settling on Victor, one of his old favourites. They agreed to meet at their usual spot; back gate of Hyde Park. He disregarded the thoughts of being caught, of the repercussions, anything that wasn't the craving for a high, a fix to burn it away, to scorch the tears from his eyes, to cauterise the jagged edges of his mangled heart, to weld shut the gates to his emotions. He needed it urgently in a way he had never needed anything (barring John) before. He would die without it, he was convinced. He needed cocaine, and he was going to have it. 

He supposed he could have gone for morphine, could have used it to pillow himself and drift from his problems, numbing his pains and allowing him peace. However, that would be too gentle, too kind, too cold. He needed the hellfire cocaine provided, needed the violent rush of brimstone through veins then the calm afterwards. Cocaine was the best choice.

He had met Victor and the transaction was made. However, the man had called him back, and Sherlock, guards down and believing the dealer had something else to provide him, had turned. The next few moments were a blur as the syringe fell to the damp ground and Sherlock followed it, a knife buried in his abdomen. The blade was firmly embedded it flesh and muscle, and he could see the moonlight dancing and shining off the hilt that was pressed flush to his body. Victor hissed an explanation of how Sherlock had gotten what he deserved, as their involvement had gotten him sent to prison via Mycroft. Sherlock would have laughed had he not been choking on gasps of pain. It was cliche, an almost stupidly mundane motive; it had been motive enough, though, and the druggie slunk off into the night as Sherlock slowly died. 

His fingers fumbled with the mobile he had pulled from his pocket, and he hurriedly sent a text ( _Hyde Park. Hurt. Hurry. SH_ ; autocorrect had been a saviour) to John. He doubted the man would come, though - he never came any more. The mobile clattered to the ground and a breathless, half-laugh escaped him. He was going to die, truly die, and his best friend, his flatmate, his John wouldn't come to save him. His penance, he supposed, for his sins were many and death was the greatest price of them all. He found peace as his eyelids fluttered close and consciousness escaped him.


End file.
